


just know that if you hide it doesn't go away

by secretly_a_savior



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Miles is Trying his Best, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Walrider!Miles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretly_a_savior/pseuds/secretly_a_savior
Summary: |̸|̶i̵f̸ ̸y̶o̸u̷ ̸g̵e̶t̴ ̸o̸u̵t̶ ̷o̶f̸ ̴b̴e̵d̸ ̷a̵n̴d̷ ̸f̵i̴n̴d̴ ̸m̶e̶ ̶s̸t̸a̵n̵d̵i̷n̶g̵ ̶a̵l̷l̴ ̵a̴l̸o̶n̶e̷,̴ ̴o̶p̶e̸n̸-̶e̷y̸e̷d̷,̶ ̸b̷u̶r̶n̶ ̵t̵h̵e̵ ̶p̵a̷g̵e̷ ̵m̷y̴ ̸l̶i̸t̶t̴l̸e̵ ̷d̷a̸r̵k̴ ̵a̴g̸e̷|̶|̵The year is 2018 and Murkoff is alive and well, bubbling just under the surface. They're still hunting the whistleblower and there's a handsome bounty on his head.Meanwhile, an immortal Miles Upshur is desperate for freedom.((a closure fic for 2013's Outlast))
Relationships: Waylon Park & Miles Upshur
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. trouble's comin for the free man

**Author's Note:**

> i literally disappear for years and come back to my bullshit.  
> always. happens every time. 
> 
> i know outlast is a dead meme but it took me seven years to finish this game and i was so fucking mad with the ending/sequel/comic books holy SHIT i want closure. 
> 
> i've had this account since sophomore year of high school.  
> i am now married happily.  
> life is something, huh? 
> 
> anyway i know the walrider becomes like a swarm of ants or some shit but we just gon' ignore that because i want closure. we can assume the 'ants' were just nanites they couldn't identify if that makes sense?? 
> 
> thank you to my readers. you keep me going. one day i will write a novel and you can fall in love all over again out from under the shadow of the works of others. 
> 
> this work of fiction was beta-read by my loving husband.
> 
> until then i will continue to thrive on archive of our own, the site that has brought me so much love.

Waylon Park was insolent and stubborn. Sure, that's what kept him alive and enabled his escape from Mount Massive asylum, but now it was irritating Miles Upshur... or, what was left to him... to no end.   
  
Waylon's purpose in life was to blow the whistle, though, and he hadn't done a good enough job of that the first time- he'd done all he was supposed to do, sure, but it wasn't enough. Murkoff was still running the world, it seemed, experimenting on those who simply exist in the wrong place at the wrong time. Profiteering human madness, and pushing the limits of humanity. Should they continue those experiments, they may find them by pushing things too far and ending it.   
  
This was the dilemma Miles Upshur faced as he watched the man, illuminated by only a small desk lamp and the blue light of his computer. Waylon was a lean man, standing just shy of six feet. Lean but not skinny- he was well toned. He had a mop of curly blonde hair that sat atop his head, contrasting against his dark facial hair. He looked gaunt in the poor lighting of the room. Miles was slightly relieved to see the man looked healthier in better light as he stood and stretched. He hardly looked like the hero he really was. 

Miles let his mind wander for a moment, staring straight ahead, a feeling he could almost call anxiety thrumming through his veins. He knew it had to be tonight- he was sick of staying hidden.

* * *

Miles Upshur was no longer human, but he still _cared_ about humanity insofar as a supernaturalesque swarm of robots could. See, the Walrider had incredible regenerative abilities. Being free from Billy Hope truly unshackled the being. Wernicke probably, in some sad, fucked up way died at peace knowing his life's work was complete. The nanites of the Swarm went to work quickly and swiftly replacing each of Miles' dying cells with a perfect, immortal copy of itself. Miles was still alive, but no longer human in any meaningful way.   
  
The problem was that in the Walrider's fight to keep Miles alive, their consciousnesses fused. No longer separate, they were the same being, and for all of the horror and trauma that went into creating the Walrider, the Good in Miles quickly overcame it. It was ever so slightly alive, feeding off of Miles' own trauma and fear, but mostly overwhelmed by the true humanity and personality of Miles Upshur.   
  
It wasn't... _perfect,_ by any means. Miles, first of all, felt great shame and anger for using his newfound form to slaughter Wernicke and the Murkoff mercenaries. He was never a perfect man, he had his vices, but he never wanted to be a _murderer._ He made no concessions in knowing it was his own anger. Sure, he had become the host, but never once did he feel _dead._ He also felt great horror at the prospect of immortality. He tried many times to kill himself, but anything _harmful_ went straight through him as if he were a ghost. He found himself laughing once, clutching a knife that he had failed to impale himself on, thinking his new body was like cornstarch and water- completely soft to anything gentle and aggressive to pressure. He also found, in those awful frenzies of fear and anger, that the Walrider became more dominant in those moments, able to take more control. 

There was also the fact that he himself was presumed dead. His family had a funeral and everything. There was no way he could step out into public. The Walrider was able to inhabit different hosts and reshape his form, but the fact was that Miles was most comfortable (and most in control) in his own body. He struggled with the concept of _being_ the thing he sought to destroy. He had no idea if the Walrider itself was a separate conscience or a new part of him that he needed to learn to control. In some moments, he felt possessed, compelled to do things, and on top of that he had no control of his new 'powers'- they just happened whether he wanted them to or not. Were it not for the fact that he could not hurt himself, eat, drink, sleep, urinate, defecate, or experience sexual pleasure, he would feel incredibly human. 

He hated the damned _thing-_ for bastardizing his body. For turning it into a vehicle for slaughter. For taking it apart and putting it back together again as a million tiny nanites, all fueled by the souls and sanity (or lack thereof) of the broken men held hostage by the Murkoff Corporation. On the other hand though, he was grateful.   
  
He often spent time at the remains of Mount Massive. Even Murkoff's investigators had completely stopped patrolling, so as it stood it was just an abandoned hospital, overtaken by greenery and wildlife. He wasn't at risk of being seen there. It enraged Miles that the site of such crimes against man, of so much death and decay, had become so lush and green. It was so full of life, quite literally fertilized by senseless death of the men who sought a new life. That being said, it was only inhabited by animals and the occasional daring group of teenagers, so he felt safe there. It felt wrong to inhabit human spaces when he knew what he was.   
  
Miles thought maybe he could just skip town- get a new name and a new apartment, live life nomadically, leaving town to start over once his lack of human-ness became apparent but he was overwhelmed with a sense of unfinished business, so he returned to the scene of the crime, searching desperately for something, _anything,_ to help him.   
  
And he found it- the precise thing he needed was practically dropped in his lap- in fact, he nearly tripped over it. (He probably would have if his new form would let him. Even the smallest of dangers seemed to evade him.) He watched in amazement as, among leaves and debris, a hunk of black and silver plastic slid across the floor of what used to be Murkoff's underground laboratory. He immediately recognized it- **_his fucking camcorder._** He picked it up and it seemed _alive_ in his hand- it seemed to thrum with some sort of energy. The camera was destroyed- it had clearly been shot and smashed up beyond repair. 

He tried hard to quell the fear he felt in himself holding the damn thing again- it's familiar leather strap against his hand made him feel as if he was in those fraught moments again, trying to evade the Walrider and escape with his life. He felt himself slipping for a moment, his own thoughts getting further away, but then snapped back to reality. It was clear to him that the evil he had merged with would overtake even his strongest efforts if he succumbed to the fear. He was unsure what precisely that meant for him, and vowed not to let it happen.   
  
He moved his hand up to the battery hatch of the camcorder, desperately trying to open it. It seemed sealed shut by the years that had passed. His hands were shaking as he desperately tried to pry the thing open to no avail. In a moment of sheer rage, he threw it at the ground where the soft plastic produced a satisfying _crack!_ He watched as the object of his desire slid right out from the camera: the memory card. He was shocked that in Murkoff's sweeps of the asylum they hadn't _found it._ The memory card was damaged and covered in the white residue of a destroyed battery, but he was sure it held what he needed. He could feel it in his bones. He wondered silently for a moment if some omniscient presence has saved the camera for him and dropped it at his feet- and laughed aloud when he realized _he_ was the only omniscient presence he knew of. He felt something akin to joy as he stared at the weathered plastic in his hand. A new dawn was beginning and the light felt warm on his face for the first time in years. 

* * *

  
Miles stared from the inside of a vent as the stubborn, insolent Waylon Park stomped a shiny USB drive into the ground, plastic going everywhere. Waylon grunted in what sounded like _anguish_ as he did so.   
  
Waylon knew _damn well_ what was on the USB drive, it was the fifteenth USB drive he'd received in the last week. He'd flushed one down the toilet, burnt about a dozen of them, and now just took to crushing them and throwing their delicate circuitry out the window. Miles huffed, frustrated. He'd come all the way to New York and obtained fake identity documents just to be disappointed time and time again by the man who had once risked it all to take Murkoff down. He watched as Waylon walked up to each of his windows, checking the locks on them, and then unlocked and re-locked his door several times just to make sure it was truly locked. He looked tired and distraught.   
  
Miles remembered what it was like to be tired and distraught all too well.   
  
Waylon lived a ways away from his wife and children. They visited with each other often, but Waylon's paranoia took a serious toll on his relationship with his wife and the mental health of his children. They were very much still in love but had physically separated to keep the man's mind at ease. He knew he was still a target- for sure. But it was easy enough to be lost in the millions of faces traversing New York City each day. He knew Murkoff's trail had gone totally cold when they found his home burnt to the ground and Miles Upshur's belongings completely decimated. He felt a pang of guilt thinking of Miles. He had unknowingly lead that man to his death. He shook the image of the silhouette in the dark clouds surrounding Mount Massive that fateful day. He knew the man was dead. He sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the shattered plastic on the ground in front of him, disappearing into the carpet. He'd watched the contents of the flash drive several times over. Combed through it frame by frame searching for proof that it was doctored or in any way faked. He knew, somehow, that it was the real deal but couldn't for the life of him understand how it had landed- fifteen times over- in his hands. 

All he knew is that he refused to do anything about it.   
  
On the USB drive was seven hours of raw footage, taken by Miles Upshur on September 17th, 2013. It had been almost five years since then at this point. His own footage was rather damning to Murkoff's reputation, but their damage control was expertly coordinated- they were prepared for the leaks. After some rebranding and a large settlement to the families of those affected by the 'unauthorized' experiments happening at Mount Massive, they were once again untouchable. They had even recently made headlines by lobbying for some new bill to be passed in D.C. Waylon had no doubts their actual intentions in D.C. were trying to find _anything_ left behind by Miles. 

Waylon looked down at his hands- they were shaking. He was unsure who was repeatedly delivering this footage to him but he didn't feel _safe._ It felt like some sort of tease, a _dare_ from Murkoff to try again. He didn't dare take the bait. He heard a rustling behind him and turned around so quickly he felt pain shoot through his neck. What he saw behind him shocked him to his core.   
  
"Don't scream. I know you're scared but whatever you fuckin' do, don't make any noise." Miles said, feet hitting the ground as he left the A.C. vent door swinging. He chuckled for a moment, looking down at his hands. "Be not afraid." He said, a hint of very unwelcome humor lining his deep voice. He probably seemed more demonic than angelic to Waylon in that moment, but he still found it funny- the way he was being looked at you'd think he had a thousand eyes and a pair of big shiny wings. 

"What the fuck?" Waylon said in a hushed whisper, more to himself than anything. He glanced briefly to the orange bottle on his desk. The dated note next to it that read "YES, YOU TOOK YOUR MEDICATION TODAY." suggested to him that this definitely wasn't a hallucination. "What the fuck, that the fuck, whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhat-"   
  
"Shut up." Miles said, looking at Waylon with pity. He wondered for a moment, had he left Mount Massive a human, if he would be just as broken as the whistleblower that sat before him. "I swear to god I'm not with them. I need your help." 

"You're alive?" Waylon asked, standing up and backing away slowly. Miles looked perfect- almost too perfect. Like a hologram or a dream. He glanced at the man's hands, counting the fingers. All ten- this had to be some kind of trap. As he stared, images Waylon hadn't seen in years flashed in front of him, almost as if being projected behind his eyelids- he recognized them as the trigger images for the morphogenic engine. He knew, in that moment, he was in the presence of something beyond his comprehension.   
  
"No. No, I'm not. I'll get to that later, but you need to calm down. I'm not made of money, y'know. You can't keep destroying those fuckin' thumb drives."   
  
"What the fuck are you?"   
  
"Whaddya mean? It's me, Miles Upshur. You're the one that dragged me into this mess, you're gonna be the one to help me out of it." 

Waylon darted for his bedroom door, but faster than a flash, Miles was in front of him with the door shut and locked. Waylon swallowed, the action doing nothing to help the fact that he felt like he'd eaten a mouth full of sand. He stared with wide eyes at the apparition before him, continually twitching and shaking his head trying to make him go away. 

"I'm not helping you with shit. Leave me alone." he said, voice shaky but growing more stable. He crossed the room back to his desk, trying to subtly reach into the top drawer. Time felt like it was stopped. His Beretta was kept in the top drawer. He fumbled trying to grab it silently, as if the other man would stop him. 

Miles watched, a sort of dark amusement running through his mind. He'd eaten too much lead to be scared of a measly handgun. He knew what was about to happen, and he had confidence that the nanites that comprised his body would part like the Red Sea to allow the bullet to pass through regardless of what he wanted. He knew he was entirely fluid, so he just watched, smirking as the smaller man before him fumbled. 

The click of the safety disengaging echoed through the room, just seconds before a loud pop rang out and a nine millimeter bullet flew towards and then straight through Miles Upshur. He crumpled to the ground, grunting and screaming, holding his stomach as if he'd been hurt.

Waylon dropped the gun, hands shaking staring at Miles who held his abdomen, wailing for a moment as if he'd been gunned down, before standing straight back up again unharmed. 

"Just kidding!" The journalist said with a shit-eating grin. "There goes your security deposit, though! You can't hurt me, trust me. It's keeping me alive."

There was a pregnant pause as Waylon glanced between Miles and the gun on the floor. He didn't move to pick it up, just stared. 

"...It?" Waylon asked, horror dilating his eyes as the final moment from Miles' footage ran through his mind. 

> _Gott in Himmel, you... have become the host..._

"It." Miles said, seeing a flash of recognition cross Waylon's expression. He knew, watching the blonde, that he wouldn't have to clarify. "It, however, cannot hurt you. At least, I don't _**think** _so. _**I**_ won't hurt you." The journalist had an ego, but not one large enough that he would act like he knew exactly how his unfortunate symbiosis worked. 

Waylon leaned against the wall and slid to the floor, knees to his chest, eyes never leaving Miles'. 

Miles approached him and sat flat on the ground, legs crossed, and reached out for a handshake. 

"Nice to finally meet you."

Miles' eyes seemed kind and friendly, if not a little bit empty. In a strange way, to Waylon, he felt the familiarity he thought veterans of the same war must feel when meeting for the first time. They both had war stories to share, he was sure of it. He took in a deep stabilizing breath and just stared for a moment. He'd seen Miles' face many times before- in newspapers and magazines, on TV, and of course in the obituaries and news coverage following the Mount Massive Incident. It occurred to him that he'd never seen the man in real life, aside from his silhouette outside of the Asylum as he drove away. 

He was a handsome man. Striking blue eyes, a sharp bone structure, and a mess of dark brown hair that looked as if he spent hours and loads of hairspray making it look simultaneously perfectly styled and untouched.

He took the other's hand, shaking it firmly. The hand in his own felt cold and synthetic. He winced in pain and ripped his hand away quickly, a barrage of Rorschach-esque gore flying through his mind. Miles cocked his head, watching. 

"They tried to use me." Waylon said quietly. "Tried to run me through the engine. I can still- I can feel it's presence. The Walrider. I don't like it. Don't touch me." 

Miles nodded, understanding. He slid backwards on the floor slightly, away from the other. 

"I'm not trying to scare you but I can't- I can't let Murkoff get away with this. I've tried getting you to do the right thing, but you won't." Miles paused, looking down to the ground. He looked back up and continued speaking, renewed optimism. It felt strange talking to someone so intimately. It occurred to him that he hadn't spoken to another human in a long, long time. "Your footage was damning, it really was, kid, but this is really fucking important. What I captured will- it will prove everything. The sole existence of this second set of tapes...." 

"No!" Waylon yelled, lashing out, angry. Miles straightened up, uncomfortable all of the sudden, aware of the dark side of his new mind that was creeping to prominence as the room got heavy. "I'm not doing shit for you. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry for what I did to you- I really am, but I- I can't. I've got a wife, I've got children. I'm not helping you. This is out of my hands. I lost _**EVERYTHING**_ to Murkoff and the trail is cold and I don't need a fucking _**ghost**_ warming it up." Waylon spat, rage flying through his veins, hot in his blood. 

Miles rose to his feet, clenching his fists. He wished he could feel the pain of his nails digging into his skin- it would ground him. 

"Get the _**fuck**_ out and don't fucking come back. I'm not helping you. You've done enough- all of the fucking _hatred,_ the fear, the trauma. All of it, it's fucking back. I haven't left my apartment in a fucking _month._ I haven't seen my fucking _**children-**_ I lost my fucking **job-** your little **gifts** had me scared shitless, you fucking monster. Making me relive all that shit. Fuck you." Waylon continued, rising to his feet again, his tone stern and angry.

Miles clenched his teeth. 

"You lost your fucking _**job?" Your fucking JOB?"** _Miles bellowed, incredulous. He was exhilarated, excited to feel _something_ and completely losing control. "Your job? I'm fucking **dead,** shit-for-brains. I lost everything and I'm stuck here _**forever.**_ You wanted to blow the fucking whistle? Then fucking do it, pussy! Your stupid fucking email got me and countless others KILLED, and yet I _**STILL**_ saved your fucking LIFE! You fucking pathetic little - aAAARGHH-" Miles attempted to speak but instead began a guttural wail- screaming out to some unknown force. It seemed as if he was in pain.

Waylon watched, rage fading to adrenaline and terror as he watched Miles' form eviscerate into the all-too-familiar form of the Walrider, black and translucent and way too massive. He seemed to fill the room, hovering. Without lifting a clawed finger, the Walrider flung a desk lamp at Waylon. The man narrowly dodged and watched as sparks and glass flew everywhere. The images behind his eyes grew in intensity and his vision felt blurry. Time felt too slow and much too quick all at once. He watched the being closely, almost in disbelief that it was before him once more.

Miles had gone too far, let too much hatred and fear take over- fear of what he couldn't tell you, but he knew it was no longer himself completely in control. It was his anger, his rage- The Walrider. He tried desperately to claw to the surface but could only watch out of tunnel vision as the violent scene before him unfolded. The Walrider moved quickly, reaching out and grabbing Waylon by the neck. He was pinned to the wall, choking, horrified, kicking and screaming against the ethereal-yet-solid being. The Swarm wouldn't budge, though, it's grip on Waylon's neck only getting tighter.

Silently praying to any god listening for forgiveness, Waylon took a few seconds to realize that he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor gasping for air. The Walrider dropped him when a knock on the front door sounded through the apartment. He looked at the Walrider, and then through the brand new bullethole in his bedroom door to the living room. Thoughts ran through his head at a million miles an hour- was it Murkoff? His wife? His neighbor? He began shaking, trying to bring himself to his feet past the pain throbbing through his head and neck, but he couldn't. 

More knocks came, as well as a muffled voice calling out "NYPD, Open up!". Waylon glanced up to the Walrider, and then back at the door. 

The ghostly form then disappeared entirely, seeming to fly through the exterior-facing wall into the cold, damp night. 

Waylon Park watched, and then looked once more to the door before passing out.


	2. ( a birth and a death on the same day ) i only appear so i can fade away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles' intentions become clearer and the slaughter begins. Waylon is given another chance at life. 
> 
> "murkoff is on the hunt, but not for a ghost, Waylon"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty gory. the next chapter will be too. it's not like... TOO graphically described but just be warned.   
> big emetophobia warning!!!!
> 
> 1312
> 
> for context, 5150 is new york's baker act so to speak- just the code for a 72 hour psychiatric hold.   
> also i know you usually aren't given a private suite for a 72 hour hold but it worked 4 da story ok??? ok

Waylon Park awoke with bright lights in his face- the ugly white bright of fluorescence. He blinked a few times and recognized the plasticky fabric of a hospital gown against his bare, scarred skin immediately. He shot up out of the bed. 

"What? Where am I- Where the fuck is m-" 

"Mr. Park, calm down." 

Waylon went pale as a sheet. _Mr. Park?_ He'd been going under an alias for years now- even his ID and Social Security card was fake.

"That's not my-" He tried to speak, but all of a sudden realized the shooting pain in his wrists. He was _cuffed to the bed._

"Yes, yes it is. Your fingerprints pinged to a Mr. Waylon Park from Lake County, Colorado. You need to calm down." The doctor said, glancing with sympathetic eyes at Waylon. "Do you remember what happened?" 

Waylon shook his head in disbelief, a gesture the doctor took to mean 'no'. 

"You tried to kill yourself. We found you proper banged up. Your neighbor called the police when she heard your firearm discharge." 

Waylon huffed- that is most certainly _not_ what happened. He tried his first question again, trying to make sure his breaths were slow and intentional, trying not to betray the white-hot rage flying through his veins. 

"Where is my wife? My kids? I need to make sure they're okay." 

"We couldn't get ahold of them, but we've left a message with them. We'll let you know if they get in touch, but either way we don't allow visitors in the psychiatric ward." 

With the words 'psychiatric ward', Waylon was suddenly aware that it felt like his heart was no longer even pumping blood, just spasming wildly. He felt lightheaded, scared, and most of all furious. For that _thing_ to come back into his life.... he had just begun to feel whole again. He wondered how safe he was- if the hospital had certain partnerships that would put him at risk. 

"Why the cuffs?" He asked, rattling them against the bed, scanning his eyes around the room for information. 

"The NYPD would like a word with you. Unlawful possession of a firearm, possession and use of falsified identity documents... your disappearance. I'll leave you to rest a little while longer. The TV remote and the nurse call button should be within reach." The doctor's voice took a more sinister tone as he spoke, and with that he exited the small suite, shutting the door behind him.

Waylon froze for a moment, feeling sweat fall from his brow. Of all the things to happen to him, he had to be held on a fucking 5150- and the charges... what was with that? When did they even get his fingerprints? He sighed and lay back against the bed for a moment, before reaching the television remote. He pressed the power button, desperate for some white noise, praying someone would bring him news of his wife. Not long after he drifted to sleep. 

* * *

New Yorkers never stopped moving. They seemed to be the only people who could never stop to smell the flowers. (Mostly because they had killed all of the flowers in their quest for urban life.) Miles knew this well, having been to the city many times. He knew, however, that with enough work you could stop a New Yorker in their tracks. He intended to do just that. 

It had been just about 2 days and 23 hours since he revealed himself to Waylon and he had a plan. He'd spent the last two days in the confines of North Brother Island- a small abandoned chunk of land between The Bronx and Riker's Island- trying to learn precisely what he could do to provoke The Swarm. 

What he'd come to understand is that there was no differentiating between himself and the Walrider. Miles Upshur and The Walrider were the same being- there were no separate thoughts or actions. He had more strength than he knew and some incredible abilities. He was still learning to use them though, finding still that sometimes he did things he didn't want to do without provocation or thought. He did however learn that as the Swarm fed on trauma, fear, and above all _rage._ He could lose control and let his own anger personify itself if he tried. (Perhaps more frighteningly, he could do this on accident too.) He found the humor in the situation- he continually compared himself to The Incredible Hulk, his favorite comic book as a child. He laughed thinking about how strong The Hulk would be if he was fueled by the horrors of Mount Massive Asylum instead of some petty childhood trauma. 

Essentially, while he could not _control_ the Swarm perfectly, he could let it take control, and that was good enough for his purposes. 

Staring at the clock, Miles sat at the coffee shop outside of the hospital wearing a surgical mask he'd nicked from the gift shop, hoping he just seemed sick, or like a traveler, and that nobody would pay him any mind. He felt exhausted for the first time in a long time, as if the Walrider's show of power was taxing on the nanites. He found it strange and somehow exciting. He knew, given New York's strict 72 hour suicide holds that Waylon should be escorted from the hospital and directly into an unmarked Dodge Charger in just a few moments. He glanced at a clock, then at the door, and then he got _angry._

He thought about Waylon's behavior, he thought about Murkoff Corporation, he thought about his mother crying at his funeral. The loss of his job over the Afghanistan expose. He really worked himself up, and precisely at 11:59am, as the doors opened to reveal Waylon and two undercover officers- a heavyset man and a small woman- he allowed the Walrider to take shape with a specific plan in mind. He prayed for a moment, to the God cruel enough to let him live as this horrid being, that the Swarm would carry out his plan while things were out of his hands. 

* * *

Waylon struggled against his handcuffs, hidden by a jacket so nobody would know he wasn't just any other patient, and then stopped dead in his tracks when he felt one of the firm hands on his arms let go. He watched as the officer was snatched by none other than the Walrider. Waylon had never seen the Walrider in perfect lighting- it was a stunning being. It looked somehow incredibly muscular yet starved at the same time- bloated and disgusting. Its skin was shiny and translucent, reflecting an incredible amount of light. 

It had no eyes, just sunken, torn cheekbones and its feet and clawed hands were black, and the color led up its limbs like tendrils. 

He watched, slack-jawed as the Walrider dragged the officer- still by the collar- high into the air. The Swarm suspended the man there for a moment, his fat face going cherry red as he struggled for air. They rose once more, faster and more violently this time all the way to the logo facade on top of the hospital, before the officer was dropped to the ground. He seemed to fall for hours until with a deafening splatter the officer hit the ground.His body broke like a water balloon and tore at every joint. Blood and grey matter spilt everywhere as gurgles of blood escaped what was left of the arresting officer's jaw. Waylon immediately vomited, collapsing to the ground onto his side, still without use of his arms. His ears began to ring as the other officer shot wildly at the Walrider, but he couldn't watch, he was too focused on not choking on his own bile. Each bullet fired went directly though the Swarm, breaking windows in the hospitals. Glass rained on Waylon and the cop's corpse beside him. The growing puddle of blood quickly reached Waylon, soaking into his plain clothes. 

Around the scene was pandemonium. Waylon heard sirens but he was unsure where they were from. Bystanders were torn between running for the hills and recording on their cellphones, eyes and mouths wide open. 

As soon as the second officer's chamber was empty, the Walrider dove in again from great height, using its full momentum and weight to slam its target into the ground. Her skull cracked against the pavement, but she wasn't dead- not yet. She was picked up by her left foot. As she was lifted from the ground, screaming and losing control of her senses, she was vomiting and bleeding from her mouth. Her eyes, too, quickly filled with blood. With a shake, her tazer, cell phone, and other accoutrements fell from her pocket and shattered on the sidewalk. With another shake of the Walrider's arm, her knee snapped at the tendon, her leg extending as the skin and muscle struggled to hold her weight. She was passed out now. 

With one more violent movement, her left leg came detached leaving the Walrider holding her ankle and calf, and the rest of her body flying upside down towards the pavement. Her head hit the sidewalk, sending more blood to cover Waylon as he struggled to maintain his senses beyond the pounding headache and violent imagery flying through his mind. 

There were more officers arriving on the scene now in riot gear, machine guns drawn. Citizens were being rushed away from the scene. 

The Walrider moved quickly down to Waylon. He snapped the chain of the blonde's handcuffs and brought him to his feet. 

Suddenly, a voice that Waylon recognized as a distorted, demonized version of Miles Upshur's voice echoed from seemingly nowhere. The Swarm, as it spoke, began to glow green, an effect barely visible in the harsh sunlight. 

" _ **The blood of these officers is not the only blood that stains this man's skin. This man is a prophet and I was once his Martyr. If you know who he is your days are numbered."**_

The Walrider then flew off, Waylon safely in its grip. 

It seemed like forever before they were safe- away from the massive police presence that descended on the city like flies on a corpse. Waylon's feet finally touched the ground and he immediately hit the floor, feeling weak. He was sputtering, glaring. He had no earthly idea where he was- he could clearly tell it was a parking garage, but _where?_ After a moment, Miles emerged from the shadows, breathing heavily, looking ragged. 

"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" Waylon managed to choke out, trying to breathe past the panic and the metallic stench of blood and stomach acid mixed. "I'm public enemy number one, now, you realize that? I don't want to help you on your ridiculous fucking quest so your response is **_KILLING TWO POLICE OFFICERS?"_**

Miles shrugged, seemingly still too breathless for words. They were both silent for a moment, save for Waylon's desperate gags and coughs. 

"Drastic times call for drastic measures." Miles said. "But realistically, that was all I needed. You're free to go home and pretend this never happened." 

He watched Waylon struggle to stand up for a moment before he finally got to his feet. 

"You give away my location and _that's_ all you needed from me?" Waylon asked, furious. "What about the footage? Why couldn't you just leak it yourself and leave me out of this?" Desperation dripped through his voice. 

Miles shrugged again with a sly chuckle. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a keyring, tossing it to Waylon. Waylon caught it, but just barely, fumbling around with it for a moment before trapping it between his cuffed wrists. 

"Trust me when I say I needed your help. Our friends at Murkoff are on the hunt, but not for a ghost. There's a bounty on your head, kid. You're going to draw them right into my lap." He paused, analyzing the other. He truly looked pathetic. Sick almost. "For a software guy, you're truly terrible at hiding your location. I found you quite easily, I'm surprised Murkoff didn't. If you leaked the footage, they would descend on you quickly.":

Waylon huffed- he was furious. He was bait this whole time- how fucking disgusting. He was disappointed. He used to truly admire Miles. 

He wondered if maybe, for all he'd done, if he deserved this. His mind flashed to Eddie Gluskin. The man, deranged or not, had begged him to stop the morphogenic engine- to save him and countless others. He couldn't- he didn't. In the case of Eddie, in fact, Waylon had killed him. He wondered too, if he was a magnet that just attracted death. It sure felt like it. A lump formed in his throat. 

He glanced down at the hard plastic in his palm. A basic Ford car key. He looked to the key and pressed a button on it. A chirp across the garage let him know that it was a Crown Victoria. For such an old car it looked brand new. He furrowed his brow. 

"How'd you get all this money?" Waylon inquired, quietly, the blood on his body feeling awfully heavy. 

"Lots of dead people have great credit. I just had to find one that hadn't filed their paperwork." Miles explained with a smirk. "I'd say you have about an hour to get the fuck out of dodge, Waylon. Get your wife, get your kids, and get on the highway at 7th and 37th. Keep going. " 

"To fucking where, Canada?" Waylon asked, walking towards the car, his eyes not leaving Miles. It was a genius choice, really. New York seemed to have an overabundance of the cars on the road, from out-of-commission cabs to parking enforcement. He'd blend in well and people would likely avoid him on the road. 

"Yeah, I guess, if that's where you wanna go. You know where to find me if you want to help me finish the job." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments keep me motivated thank you so much for the good vibes <3

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this work, please comment! Even if it's negative.  
> Comments keep me motivated <3


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